


Restless Dreaming

by QueenofBaws (Sisterwives)



Category: Silent Hill
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Implications of horrible things, slow descent into madness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-23 16:02:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sisterwives/pseuds/QueenofBaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You'd do anything to see her again.</p><p>Anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Restless Dreaming

There's something thumping in the trunk of your car.  
  
You've been driving for hours, now, and the road is beginning to blur in front of you. The scenery is running into itself, becoming green-brown blurs in your periphery as you hunch over the wheel. Your back is seizing and your throat is itching for a drink, but you can't let her see you like that, you just can't. You need to be perfect when you see her--just perfect. Because she deserves perfect, she deserves the world.   
  
Even now, you can feel your chest growing tighter, your heart beginning to race, just thinking about that envelope in your pocket. It was her writing, prim and proper and barely slanted to the right. You've seen it so many times before--in anniversary cards, in grocery lists stuck to the refrigerator, on the dotted line of the forms from the hospital--so it didn't make sense that your brain had fought with it for so long. Of _course_  it was her writing. Of  _course_  it was her letter. Who else could've written it?  
  
She was waiting for you, and you  _have_  to get to her, winding road and exhaustion be damned. You haven't slept in hours, haven't eaten or stopped to think. You'd spent a long time on the front stoop of your house, looking down at her curled cursive, but then everything had shut down. You'd shifted to cruise control. You'd found the old map, grabbed your keys, and left. There was nothing there for you now, anyway, not without her. You could drive for days, if that's what it took.  
  
There's something thumping in the trunk of your car.  
  
You realize you've had the wipers on for miles, now. You shut them off with a flick of your wrist before the squeak of rubber on glass can drive you up the wall. For a while, you try listening to the radio, hoping against hope that all it would take to soothe your jingled nerves is a little soft rock. But you can't concentrate. Your head isn't there, and no matter how you fiddle with the dial, all you hear is the static buzz of white noise. If you listen closely enough, though, you can hear her voice, lingering on the precipice of your memory.   
  
You're grateful for the early hour--there aren't any other drivers to concern yourself with. You've grown so weary of people, nowadays. And when you start listing to the left, there are no horns, no shouted curses, just the wandering of your mind. It doesn't even take any effort, the images just come to you, one after another after another.   
  
She looks out over the lake, arms folded as she stands at the window, smiling until she realizes you have the camera turned on her, but even then she laughs and brushes you away. She bends over and cups a flower in her hand, cocking her head as she inspects it from the park bench. She turns to look at you, as the doctor walks out, and there's something in her expression that you can't quite read. She watches you as you enter the room, watch her eyes skate over you as you only half-try to hide the bouquet of roses. She lays on your bed in those ratty pajamas she got on sale, her hand reaching out for yours, not even half awake, anymore.  
  
There's something thumping in the trunk of your car.  
  
You move back into the right lane, and you know you have to get a hold of yourself. You haven't seen her in  _so long_ , and when you finally find her, you can't be so off kilter. You need your wits about you now more than ever, after all. Her letter had mentioned a special place, but there were so many special places for you, in that town. For a moment, you remember how very often you'd promised to take her back. You never did, and to this day, you can't forgive yourself for that. The two of you had so many wonderful memories in that town by the lake. It only made sense that was where she was waiting for you. She loved that place, almost as much as she loved you.  
  
The past tense strikes you with a sudden wave of despair that clouds your vision and your judgment. You should've fought harder for her, you should've spent more time with her, you should've loved her more. You would do anything to see her again--absolutely  _anything_. Just to touch her face, smell her perfume, watch the corners of her eyes crinkle as she smiles. The picture in your pocket will only last until it fades, and with the way you worry it between your fingers, that could be any day now. You need to  _find_  her, you need to  _be_  with her.  
  
But on some level, in that still-rational part deep down inside of you, you know you won't. You know it as surely and as clearly as you remember the tiny, embroidered roses on those discolored and worn-through pajamas. You won't see her again, no matter how long you comb through that town. You won't see her again, regardless of how many doors you knock on. You  _can't_  see her again. Because she's dead.  
  
And there's something thumping in the trunk of your car.


End file.
